Rogue's Honor (6 page)

Finishing both her breakfast and her
ruminations, she asked hesitantly, mindful of the role she was
playing, "If we are unable to find Hettie today, would you . . .
mind too much if I stayed here for a few days?"

Mr. St. Clair, having just taken a sip of
tea, sputtered and coughed. Pearl feared that boded ill, but as
soon as he recovered he said cheerfully enough, "Of course I don't
object. But don't give up so easily. We'll find your friend, never
fear. Why don't you tell me everything you can about her?"

Pearl examined his face for signs of
reluctance—or lechery—but found only kindness and curiosity. She
really had been exceedingly fortunate that he, and no one worse,
had appeared to assist her. His curiosity was the biggest threat.
That, and her undeniable attraction to this totally unsuitable
man.

"Hettie is very nice," she offered
unhelpfully after a moment. "I told you last night what she looks
like—shorter and plumper than I, with curly brown hair."

If he felt any exasperation, he hid it
admirably, only saying patiently, "Yes, I remember. But what is her
last name? Where is her father's farm? Can you remember anything at
all that she said about where you would be staying?"

"We were to stay with her cousin," she said,
sticking to the story she'd given him last night. "I don't think
her last name is the same as Hettie's though." She couldn't give
him Hettie's last name either, for she could too easily be traced
to the Oakshire household.

"And her father?" His wonderful voice was
still patient. "He has a farm near Oaklea, you said."

Pearl hoped she wouldn't regret naming a
village barely three miles from her father's primary estate in
Oakshire, but it was the first thing that had popped into her head.
She must not allow Mr. St. Clair to distract her so! "Yes, just a
small one. He's a tenant—"

"Of the Duke of Oakshire, I presume."

She glanced up at the change in his tone.
"You do not like the Duke of Oakshire?"

He was frowning, but at her question he
smoothed his brow with a visible effort. "Actually, I know very
little of him. I simply believe that farmers should be allowed to
own the land their families have tilled for generations."

"So do I," she agreed eagerly, though she
knew what she said would be heresy to most of her class. She opened
her mouth to elaborate with her theories on how such a radical
shift might benefit the economy, but remembered in time that she
was supposed to be simple-minded. So instead, she merely said,
"I've . . . often thought that."

He smiled at her approvingly. "Come, let's go
back to the vicinity of the Mountheath house to begin our search.
You can give me more details as we go."

Rising, he plucked her cloak from the back of
a chair and draped it over her shoulders. At home, Pearl received
such courtesies as a matter of course, never thinking a thing about
them. So why should this instance, by this man, cause her arms to
tingle? For a fleeting moment she considered what Society would be
bound to believe, once it became known that some nameless commoner
had compromised Lady Pearl.

They would think that he and she had . . .
The tingling increased, and she felt herself pinkening. No, she
didn't dare think along such lines. It was absurd, of course, yet
far, far too easy to imagine.

She thanked him haltingly, chiding herself
for such foolishness, then tied her kerchief securely over her
hair. Wishing vainly for a thorough wash and a change of clothes,
she accompanied him out the door and down to the street.

Seven Dials by daylight was far less
frightening, but no less squalid. A woman sat in a narrow doorway
nursing an infant, while two painfully thin toddlers, dressed only
in tattered rags despite the chill wind, played in a rubbish heap
nearby. A few steps farther along, a man wearing the remnants of a
cavalry uniform sat slumped against a wall, his single leg
extending into the alley as he shook his tin cup at them.

Pearl choked back a gasp of pity, momentarily
distracted from the man at her side. "Was that man a soldier?" she
whispered.

Her companion nodded. "One of thousands
reduced to begging, discarded by their country after serving in its
cause against the French." His voice was bitter.

Though she had read such accusations in the
Political Register
, until now Pearl had not fully believed
her own government, run by men like her father, could be so
callous. But here was the evidence before her. She wished she had
money with her, that she might ease the poor man's straits, though
she knew it would do nothing to solve the larger problem.

"Hey mister, Mr. Saint, sir, can you help my
sister?" A little girl, no more than five years old, her face as
dirty as her torn dress, ran up to tug on Mr. St. Clair's
sleeve.

He glanced quickly at Pearl, then said, "Not
right now, Emmy. I'll be back soon."

"But she's so sick. Mama thinks she might
die." The tyke's chin trembled as tears made pale tracks down her
smudged cheeks.

When he hesitated Pearl put a hand on his
arm. "Let's go see what we can do," she suggested. "Please. I don't
mind."

He shot her a grateful glance that made her
heart tremble, then nodded. "Very well. Lead the way, Emmy."

The child led them into a dark doorway, down
a narrow hallway, then through another door into a cluttered room
with several straw pallets along one wall. A thin woman knelt over
one of the pallets, where a girl perhaps a year younger than Emmy
was shaking violently.

Pearl recognized the symptoms at once, and
spoke before Mr. St. Clair could. "How long has she been like
this?" she asked the woman sharply.

The woman turned, her tearful eyes wide and
frightened. She looked first at Mr. St. Clair, with dawning hope,
then at Pearl. "Thank ye for comin', Mr. St. . . . Clair. Thank ye
from the bottom of me heart. I fear we may be losin' poor Mimi. She
started shakin' just a few minutes since, but can't seem to
stop."

Both Pearl and Mr. St. Clair moved forward,
but she reached the girl first. "Do you keep poison out for rats?"
she asked quickly.

"Aye, we can't keep 'em out of the food,
otherwise. D'ye think poor Mimi . . . ?"

"Yes, I do. Have you any asarabacca about?"
The woman regarded her blankly. "Mustard, then?" Already, Pearl was
reaching for the child, prepared to thrust a finger down her throat
if nothing else would serve.

"Mustard? Aye, but—"

"Bring it, please. Quickly." The tiny girl
convulsed again, a blue rim appearing around her lips. Pearl took
the mother's place at her side, supporting her. "There, there,
sweetheart. You'll be all right. Everything will be fine."

"Do you have it, Mrs. Plank?" Mr. St. Clair
asked urgently. Pearl had nearly forgotten his presence. "Good.
Hurry, woman!"

He took the bottle and handed it to Pearl,
who quickly pried little Mimi's tight-clenched teeth open and
poured a liberal amount down her throat. After only a few anxious
seconds, the little girl retched, expelling the contents of her
stomach, mustard and all. Pearl continued to hold her as her
tremors slowly subsided. Finally, with a little sigh, she fell
asleep.

"I think she'll be all right now," Pearl
whispered to the girls's mother, transferring the tiny bundle into
her eager arms. "Give her some water when she wakes, as much as she
will drink. You should also have her seen by a physician as soon as
possible."

The woman nodded. "I'll . . . I'll try. I
don't know how to thank you, Miss—"

"Purdy. I'm just glad I was able to get here
in time." She turned to Emmy, who had watched in silence the entire
time. "You may have saved your sister's life. You should be very
proud."

Emmy responded with a gap-toothed smile.
"Thank you, Miss Purdy. Thank you, Mr. Saint." She then flung
herself at Pearl and hugged her tightly, before turning back to
watch her sleeping sister.

Pearl stood, smiling. This was what she had
always loved best about living on her father's estates—the personal
contact with the tenants, the knowledge that she could render
needed assistance. It was good to know the skills she'd accumulated
there were useful here in London, as well. This was far more
satisfying than playing the part of a glittering ornament in some
ballroom.

"Shall we go?" murmured Mr. St. Clair at her
side, careful not to wake the sleeping child.

"Oh! Yes, of course." With a last glance at
the tiny apartment where she had made a difference, Pearl followed
him back out into the sunlit alley. "I'm so glad we were coming by
just then," she commented as they continued on their way.

"Yes." At his tone, she glanced up at her
companion, to find him regarding her intently. Her heart quickened
its pace. "You saved little Mimi's life. I wouldn't have known to
do that. Where did you learn such skills?"

She realized abruptly that she had completely
forgotten her role as a simpleton in the face of the emergency.
"Ah, on Hettie's farm, of course. The . . . the dogs there are
always getting into the rat poison."

"Of course." His intense, dark gaze did not
leave her face, and she felt it coloring under his solemn regard.
"I can see that there is more to you than meets the eye, Purdy."
His expression told her that he intended to find out what.

"Would you like to go back to my lodgings for
some more tea, to settle yourself?" Luke asked the unusual woman at
his side. "Or would you prefer to go on at once?"

Purdy blinked up at him, again giving the
impression of a lovely idiot, something he had now begun to doubt
she was. Or was that wishful thinking on his part? In daylight, her
eyes were an astonishingly beautiful violet-blue.

"Let's go on," she said. "I must try to find
Hettie."

"Very well. This way, then." Luke noticed
that she was again speaking with an uncultured accent. During the
crisis at the Planks', both her manner of speaking and her
vocabulary had improved markedly. He decided not to tell her he'd
noticed—not yet, anyway.

He led her through the alleyways of Seven
Dials, avoiding the foulest areas. Even so, he heard an occasional
indrawn breath of dismay at the poverty and filth around them.
Whether dimwitted or a clever liar, Purdy clearly had a
compassionate heart.

In ten minutes they had reached more
respectable environs, where tradesmen and regularly employed
workers lived. In another ten minutes they approached the outskirts
of Mayfair. "Not far now," he said encouragingly.

Purdy nodded, but pulled her kerchief lower,
so that it concealed part of her face as well as her hair. Again
Luke wondered what she'd been running from the night before. He
couldn't believe that the girl had committed any sort of crime, but
as they neared the Mountheath house, her steps slowed.

"I, ah, what should we do now, do you think?"
she asked him, her voice reflecting her uncertainty. "Hettie won't
be here today, surely."

He placed an arm around her shoulders, hoping
to bolster her courage. Oddly, he still felt protective toward her,
even knowing that she was hiding things from him. He'd never felt
that way about any woman before. Before, he'd assumed it was
because of her mental deficiency. But now . . .

"We can go around to the mews and ask for
news of her," he suggested. "Perhaps you'll see the footman who
hired you."

She nodded, swallowing. Luke frowned but said
nothing further, and she accompanied him around to the back of the
square without further protest, though she hung back when they
neared a small knot of stable hands. Before anyone had spotted
them, she halted.

"I . . . I don't see him," she whispered,
clearly anxious to retreat. Unwilling to add to her distress, Luke
refrained from urging her forward.

"Would you like me to make inquiries on your
behalf?" he asked gently. It would be risky, of course, if last
night's thefts had been discovered, but he discovered he was
willing to do almost anything to erase the fear from Purdy's sweet
face.

"If you wouldn't mind terribly?"

The gratitude in those lovely violet eyes
made him feel willing to slay a dragon for her, if necessary. "Just
a moment, then," he said, stifling a smile at such an absurd
notion. "You can wait here beside the gate, out of sight."

Giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, he
walked over to the stablehands, hoping the girl wouldn't flee
before he returned. Just before he reached the group, a liveried
groom emerged from the servants' entrance at the rear of the house
and hurried in the same direction.

"Hoy there, lads!" he called out to the
workers, who immediately broke apart and grabbed their shovels and
brooms, attempting to look busy. "More news from Hodge, who had it
direct from his lordship himself."

Luke slowed his pace to a stroll, making it
look as though he were merely headed down the alley toward the
houses beyond the Mountheath's, so he could listen.

"We're all to keep our eyes peeled for
anything out of the ordinary. Her ladyship's suspicions were right,
it seems. Not just jewels were stolen last night, but some of the
plate, as well."

An excited murmer arose. One of the hands
even exclaimed, "Was it the Saint, think you?"

Luke had all he could do to maintain his
leisurely pace as he came level with them, only a few yards away,
his ears straining. Luckily, he'd seen none of these men last
night, so they wouldn't recognize him.

"Aye, it were him all right. Hodges was in a
fair fury when he found his calling card in the plate closet. But
there's more." The groom raised his voice to be heard above their
mutterings. "The thievery here was bad enough, but the blackguard
did even worse two houses down." He nodded in the direction Luke
was heading. "Miss Fannie's maid, Maggie, overheard her ladyship
saying there was a kidnapping last night, as well."